Old and Tired Worn-Out Boots
I got my first pair of hiking boots when I was an eleven-year-old Scout. They were not that well made and were quite inexpensive. Those first boots took me through the fields and canyons that were close to my house. There were hikes though the Malibu Hills and San Bernardino Mountains. For an eleven year old, hiking was an adventure of exploration and discovery. My boots allowed me to see new and beautiful vistas, view close up frogs, lizards, snakes, birds, insects, and a variety of plants and trees that were not to be found in my neighborhood Westchester. My Scoutmaster at the time was Cliff Thompson. He not only was a veteran of World War I, but also the custodian at our church. Cliff was a friend to all the boys and was a great guy to hang out with when there wasn't anything else to do. Many a time my mother would shout to me as I went out the door; "Where are you going Larry?" My response; "Over to the church to help Cliff." Cliff was a great outdoorsman and could seemingly hike forever without getting tired. Hiking along with Cliff opened a new and wondrous world. A world I could travel to by just putting on my boots.
I grew out of my first pair of boots before I could wear them out. When I turned twelve I became a real boy scout and was made a member of the regular scout troop in our ward. This required a new pair of boots. Again they were not very expensive, and this time we were smart enough to buy the boots a little big so as to accommodate my growing feet. I wore two pairs of socks at first and went down to just one pair as I got older. Our troop combined all the boys twelve to eighteen of two wards. Our scoutmaster was Lynn Johnson from the second ward. A veteran of World War II who smoked, drank beer, and was the best fly fisherman in the world. From Lynn I also learned to play poker; draw poker and seven card stud mostly, plus how to shoot craps. I figured that these skills would be useful if our country ever went to war again and I was drafted.
My first real scout trip was to the Devil's Postpile National Monument area on the eastern side of the High Sierras, where we camped at Sotcher Lake. I had just turned twelve and couldn't wait to try out my boots on some real mountains. Mountains that had been hiked by John Muir and Ansel Adams. Because of the age difference between the boys in the troop, there was a little hazing that went on by the older boys directed towards the younger 12 year olds. Our scoutmaster always had boxing gloves with him no matter if we were having scout meetings at church or out on a camp trip. If any problems arose, out came the gloves. I got laced into the gloves more than once. Always against older boys. The key to all this was to not back down, if you stood up and fought back, you gained the respect of the older boys. That week, my first scout trip, I fished in mountain streams, hiked to waterfalls and alpine lakes, and grew up a little, all the while wearing my boots.
My next big scout trip was a survival hike into the primitive area of northern Idaho by McCall. This was a long way from my home in Los Angeles, and it took two full days of driving to get there. We finally arrived at a scout camp where our survival training was to take place before the actually hike. There we met for the first time our trainer and survival expert, Aud Beyorque (I am sure I spelled that wrong, we just called him Odd). Odd had served in the French underground during WWII and had learned his survival skills while hiding from the Germans. He had great stories about hiding in ditches with sewage up to his nose while the Germans and their dogs were trying to find him. After the war he was a survival instructor for the army. We never found out which army. We learned such things as: If it moves you can eat it...generally. Anything that lives in the ocean you can eat raw...generally. Everything that lives in fresh water must be cooked. We learned about berries. The ones that you can eat and the ones that will kill you. I could never remember which was which so I just stayed away from the berries. We learned the art of setting snares to catch small animals and birds, and log falls for larger animals. Once our training was over, we were all set to start our adventure. The next day I laced up my boots, packed my pack, and was ready to go. We were loaded onto several pick-up trucks and drove into the primitive area until the dirt road we were on disappeared into the forest. Then we started hiking. After hiking all day we arrived at a lake completely exhausted. But there was not time to rest as now we had to gather food for dinner. We carried a number 10 can to do our cooking in, and ate in small groups. That first night our group had two dozen frog legs, a fish head that had been given to us by Odd, not the whole fish just the head, and some pine needles. From our training we had learned that we should eat all that was cooked and drink the water after so as to get all the available nourishment. So how did it taste? Just like it sounds. We continued on hiking the next day and the day after that. We noticed that on the second day the trail had disappeared. On the third day it was obvious to me that something was wrong. At mid day, when we had stopped to rest, Odd announced that we were not lost. It was just that the trail was lost. Our survival hike had just turned real. One of the things you learn from hiking is to take care of your feet. Never hike in new boots, keep you toenails trimmed, and apply a band aid or mole skin to any hot area on your feet before it can turn into a blister. If you do these things, your boots can do their job and keep you going mile after mile; and you will love your boots. Unfortunately, some of my fellow hikers had not taken care of their feet and were now limping and struggling to keep up. After a week we finally found a forest road and a ranger. We had been truly lost and were told by the Ranger that it had been 17 years since anyone had been through the area where we were.
I love to shoot. I was first taught to shoot by my big brother Bob. Even though we are seven years apart, he used to take me along with his friends to hunt and fish. Bob had a real temper and would yell and get mad at me for the smallest of things. It didn't mean anything, though, and he continued to take me with him everywhere. He even took me on several dates he had with girlfriends. I never thought too much of this because, hey, I was just hanging out with my big brother. My being there never seemed to slow him down, though. I would just take a walk and enjoy being out. All the guys at the time called each other by their last name. Since there were two of us, we became know as "Big Elton" and "Little Elton." I always thought this amusing since both of us were short. Even when I grew taller than Bob, the nick names remained. On all these trips with my big brother I wore my boots. They not only accompanied me while hiking but joined me while hunting and fishing. Never did I go anywhere with Bob that it did not turn out to be an adventure.
When I got older and could drive, I would take my friends in one of the trucks from my dad's shop and go hunting and exploring. There were many trips out to the desert along the All American Canal to hunt dove and into the San Gabriel mountains to hunt mountain quail. My boots not only made hiking possible but were necessary for hunting also.
When I was eighteen a group of us went camping in Yosemite. There were so many great trails to explore. Yosemite is the most beautiful spot in the whole world. God truly out did Himself when He created it. On one hike, we went up to Nevada Falls. Just before the falls, the river formed a large pool which was clearly marked "No Swimming." One of the guys in the group who I didn't know very well decided to go swimming anyway and show off to the girls. He quickly got caught in the current; and because he couldn't swim that well, started to drown. I striped down and jumped in to help him. When I got to him he bear hugged me and pulled me under the water with him. We were now both caught in the current and headed for the falls. I had been on the swim team and was a strong swimmer, plus I had earned my life-saving merit badge. I was able to spin him around, put him in an arm lock, and grab him by the hair with my other hand putting him on his back. I then used a scissor kick to get us out of the current and back to shore. What I remember most about this was how totally exhausted I was when I finally got us to shore. I rested for over an hour before I could lace up my boots and head back to camp.
After my mission I got a new pair of boots, broke them in, and took my younger bother Dennis back packing into the High Sierras. This was my first long hike after my mission and I was looking forward to getting to know my brother better and do some catching up. Since this was my first major hike in a long time, I was a little worried about my condition; and I didn't want my little brother to show me up. It turned out that I should not have been worried at all. I was in great condition. How could I have forgotten that I had spent the last two years tracting and walking all over Argentina.
Soon after we were married I decided that I should take Marion to the High Sierras and introduce her to the joys of camping. Marion had never been camping before, but I just knew she would love it. I had built a camper in our Dodge Van and this was to be its maiden voyage. We arrived at a beautiful spot along side a lovely stream and set up camp. It was off season so we pretty much had the place to ourselves. It froze that night. I got up early to go fishing and asked Marion if she wanted to come along. I was now offering to teach her the joys of fishing. Marion, by this time, had bundled up in both of our sleeping bags, all the coats, and even the towels. Marion was never a morning person. I returned after catching several nice trout and started to cook breakfast. I first cooked up some bacon, and then fried up the trout in the bacon grease. Then scrambled some eggs. Marion never had trout before and certainly never thought of it as breakfast. I learned a lot about Marion on this trip. She was adventuresome and a good sport, who was willing to try just about anything. She did not like freezing all night in a sleeping bag, was not much for hiking, and didn't like fishing. However, she loved the trout. To this day she talks about that breakfast and how delicious it was. I'm not sure whether or not Marion ever got to love camping, but she loves camp cooking, mostly because she loves cooking when someone else does it.
I didn't get a chance to do much hiking for the next several years because of starting a family and work, but longed to get out and explore new trails. After college I was hired by the Illinois Central Railroad in 1972. I loved my job and worked hard. After a year and a half, I received a promotion and we moved to Memphis, Tennessee. After six months in Memphis I received another promotion, and we moved to Atlanta Georgia in 1974. It was there that I met Roger Taylor, who became a fast friend. Roger was one of the most intelligent people I have ever met. He had a PhD in microbiology and worked at the CDC in Atlanta. I loved how Roger's mind worked. He was a scientist who had incredible, well trained, critical thinking skills. For Roger there was a reason and explanation for everything. He was an active member of the church and had spent many hours studying the doctrine and history of Mormonism.
To some Roger and I looked like the odd couple. I never felt this way, however, because we shared so much in common. We both loved to read, learn new things, reason, and think; although Rodger was much better at this than I was. We also shared a developing love for photography and the outdoors. Together we decided to hike the Appalachian Trail which starts in Georgia and ends in Maine. We couldn't do the whole trail at once, of course, so we planed on taking a week's vacation each year and do it seven days at a time. This is when I bought my first pair of high-quality boots. The ones I chose and the kind I still use today were Vasque. They were made in Italy and were tried and tested in the Alps. My new boots where all leather, came up high enough to cover and support my ankles, and had a full metal shank in the sole. All serious backpacking boots had to have a steel shank in the sole to protect the feet from stone bruises. Because the pack I was carrying contained all I would need for a week on the trail, it was very heavy. The weight of you and the pack goes straight to your feet, which after a few days of hiking without the additional protection in the boot's sole, can cause crippling bruising of your feet. Today other materials are use in the shank because they are lighter and just as strong. My Vasque Boots served me well hiking the Appalachian Trail each summer with Roger, and I never had any problem with my feet. Roger is gone now but lives on in my memories of a wonderful and special friendship.
I got another promotion which required moving to the company's headquarters in Chicago. We bid a tearful farewell to Atlanta, packed up the family, and headed out for a new adventure. I was looking forward to seeing what kind of camping and hiking opportunities Illinois had to offer. There were not any. I did try, though. I found a state park where you could camp so I we loaded up our gear and headed out. It turned out to be a small area in what looked to be an old corn field with a barbed wire fence around it. What a disappointment. There were great parks in Chicago and so many wonderful things to experience and see that hiking was briefly forgotten. But not completely. In Illinois there was a lot of abandoned railroad tracks. The state had a program to turn some of these into hiking trails. It was a great idea. Once the tracks and ties were removed, the roadbed made a great trail. I found one of these called the Prairie Trail and thought it would be a great experience for the family. We could walk through the prairie and be like our pioneer ancestors. What could be better than that, right? On the day of the great adventure I put on my Vasque boots, loaded up the family in our van, and headed for the prairie. We found the trail, parked the van, and headed out. The Elton pioneer family. Well not all of us are meant to be pioneers it turned out. After only a few miles, it seemed, Pete and I had gotten a little ahead of the rest. I sensed something wrong and turned around to see that Marion, Katy, Amy, and Margaret were gone. We quickly backtracked and found them sitting along side the trail refusing to go a step further. It was mutiny! Pete and I had to hike back to the van and came back to pick them up. Well I thought it would be a fun outing...I really did. Not all my great ideas are fully appreciated, but they are still great ideas.
1988 found our family in Las Vegas, Nevada where we had moved to from Chicago. I had purchased an old Chevy pick-up truck and, once settled, I laced up my boots, and Pete and I header out to the desert to shoot and explore. This lead to many many trips out to the desert to explore the many dirt roads that went to exciting places. We would come upon one, say I wonder where that one goes and head up it. One hour from our house was Mt. Charleston. A 12,000 ft high mountain, the top of which could be reached by a very strenuous trail which began at 5,000 ft and climbed to 12,000. The trail takes a 23-mile loop like a horseshoe starting at the north end and ending at the south. I had been called as the young men's youth leader and decided to take the older boys and hike Mt. Charleston. We left at 5 a.m. and started hiking at 6 a.m. There were only three boys who showed up. The excitement levels ranged from very excited to really not much. Pete, as always, was in the very excited group which contained one boy, Pete. We managed to reach the top and were rewarded by a magnificent view. We stayed at the top for an hour and then headed down. We reached the bottom at 7 p.m. We had spent 12 hours hiking up to 12,000 ft and back down, and one of the boys looked as if he were going to die. Word got out about our hike up Mt. Charleston, which resulted in it becoming our first and last hike with the young men.
My next hike up Mt. Charleston was with my sister Joyce. Joyce kept herself in shape by running, she even ran a Marathon; and she loved to hike. We had talked about going backpacking together but had never been able to find a time when we could both do it. I had told her about the trail up Mt. Charleston, and she got very excited about it. Since we wanted to take in as much as possible, and not rush it, we decided to make it a two-day trip; overnight up close to the tree line, then the next day go over the top and down. The Mt. Charleston hike is tough. For us it would be even more challenging since we were going to be carrying full packs. There is no water on Mr. Charleston so along with all our gear for sleeping and cooking, tent, stove, sleeping bag, food etc., we had to carry enough water for two days, a minimum of a gallon each. Water is heavy!
I figured that my faithful boots, the ones I had purchased in Georgia to hike the Appalachian Trail, had one last hike in them. So the day of the hike, I laced up my boots once again, kissed the family goodbye; and Joyce and I headed out. The first day was quite grueling but we arrived at 10,000 ft in good shape and found a place to set up camp. Joyce loved it. Many people are surprised to know that a hour from Las Vegas are beautiful mountains. We had hiked through aspen groves whose fall color was painting a beautiful golden canape for us to walk though. As we gained altitude, we came upon Ponderosa pines which towered over us; and as we continued to climb, the beauty of the mountain seemed to embrace us and carry us on and on. We set up camp and ate a hot dinner. As the sun was setting, a cold icy wind had picked up and we crawled into our tent. We talked and shared memories, then I told Joyce about the Bristlecone Pines that we would see the next day.
Bristlecone Pines are the world's oldest living trees. Some of the trees alive now are over 5,000 years old. They are found in isolated groves at high altitudes in the mountains of the southwest, and have a remarkable ability to survive in extremely harsh and challenging environments. To survive, the trees will allow part of themselves to die so that other parts can continue on living. It is very common to come up on one of these magnificent trees, full and beautiful in its dark green needles, and see the back half dead. When Joyce and I came upon the first grove, at the very top of the tree line, we dropped our packs and started running around shouting; "Oh look at this one! No, no come and look at this one! It's even better!" We then sat down and just looked at these wondrous trees that were old when Christ walked the earth, and pondered, sacrifice, survival, and life. How could one not?
The last 1,000 feet of the climb is steep with difficult footing and thin air. We had finally reached the summit and were rewarded with a magnificent view. Joyce and I shook hands and hugged as we took in the view that reached into four states. After resting an hour, the time had come to start the descent. The hike up had been hard; but now we faced what some say is the hardest part, going down. The secret is to lace up your boots extra tight so that your feet don't slide forward jamming your toes into the toe of your boots. Again a heavy pack compounds the difficulty of everything you do. We reached the car completely exhausted, drained of all energy, barely able to put one foot in front of the other, and elated that we had made it. I took off my boots and saw that they were worn and getting tired. They had served me well from Georgia to Illinois and then to Nevada. So many wonderful memories.
I was excited. Elton Optics was sponsoring the Double Haul in the Fall fly fishing tournament put on by Western Outdoors magazine, and I was returning to the High Sierras. The headquarters for the tournament was in Mammoth Lakes and the fishing was at Lake Crowley. I needed new boots and started looking around for a store that sold quality boots. Surprisingly there were few places in Las Vegas that had what I was looking for. Fortunately for me, a new REI store had opened not far away, so I headed over there. They had a good selection of real hiking and backpacking boots so I was set. I had loved my Vasque boots I had bought in Atlanta, but decided I would try on several different brands just to see. None of the other boots fit quite right. I tried on the Vasque boots and knew I had found the best boots for me. I broke them in on my regular walks around the neighborhood and headed for the High Sierras.
The tournament was great fun, but what excited me the most was that Mammoth is the gateway to the Devil's Postpile National Monument where I had camped with the scouts on my first camping trip. After the tournament, I drove into the park and stopped at Sotcher Lake where I had camped so many years before. I then hiked to Devil's Postpile and to Rainbow Falls. These are easy hikes but brought back so many memories. I then hiked up to the John Muir Trail which runs along the ridge of the mountains to the west. Once I reached the trail, I turned to the east and gazed upon the back of Mammoth Mountain. Mammoth is a very popular ski area. I wondered how many people came to Mammoth and never saw it the way I was seeing it now.
We continued to participate in the Double Haul in the Fall up until Western Outdoors stopped putting it on. After the tournament had been cancelled, I continued to go to the High Sierras each year to spend a week or more camping, fishing, and hiking. I became familiar with the best spots, from Bridgeport to Bishop, that offered my three favorite things to do, but to be honest I liked the hiking the best. I am sure that I would get an argument as to where the best high country hiking is found in the U.S. Being born and raised in California, the High Sierras are my mountains and nothing can compare with them. I have hiked to beautiful alpine lakes so high up that they still had snow and ice around them in August. Waterfalls formed by melting snow coming down from snow-capped peaks 13,000 ft high. Taken a 10-mile hike, visited five lakes, and never went under 10,000 ft. Gone into areas where the trails were so far up and were so seldom used that they had been completely erased by harsh winter storms. Stood on mountain tops and, looking out, have marveled at the magnificence of God's creation.
I believe that the thing I like most about hiking is pondering. While hiking my mind can go wherever it wants. I can review the past that is captured in my memories, wonder about things in the present, or contemplate the future. An example of this would be the hike I took from Rock Creek to Mono Pass. The trail head starts at 10,272 ft and raises to 12,077 at the pass. The trail is rated strenuous. I have always wondered who rates the trails in the High Sierras. Whoever does it must be a cross between some pack animal and a mountain goat, and simply, I am sure, cannot be human. So when a trail is rated strenuous; believe it. I always try to spend a night at altitude to avoid mountain sickness. So I had camped the night before at 9,000 ft and was ready to head for Mono Pass, being now acclimated to the altitude. I laced up my boots, loaded my day pack with all I needed for the day, and headed out. I began on the main trail up the canyon and once I came to the Mono Pass turned off, I headed up; then started thinking about my children.
I have been traumatized by childbirth twice in my lifetime. The first time was in a health class at college where the class was shown a film of a live childbirth. I quickly realized that this was not an educational film. It was a horror movie! I looked around the room and saw all the guys squirming in their seats and turning different shades of green, while I was fighting the urge to run screaming from the room. The young women in the class, on the other hand, were watching with great interest, some, heaven forbid, with a kind of longing. If I had been Joseph, I would have run for the hills when Mary first went into labor and returned with the shepherds when it was all over.
I had quickly reached the tree line and continued hiking up the trail.
When Marion became pregnant with our first child, we were overjoyed. Then began the long wait. I had much compassion for what Marion was going through but, understandably, couldn't comprehend any of it. I was worried because I knew where all this was headed; childbirth. After all, I had seen the movie. I was terrified, but I wasn't so stupid that I was going to tell my sweet, beautiful, and very pregnant wife that. Marion had great support from all the women in both families who had gone through this, but in reality you can't tell a soon-to-be new mother what it's like. Two weeks past the due date, and after two false runs to the hospital, it looked like this was finally going to happen. We arrived at the hospital, got all settled in and Marion went into hard labor. I was standing by her side not knowing what to do, so I gently put my hand on her shoulder. This was followed by a terrifying demand, "Don't touch me!" At this moment I thought that my sweet wife was going to bite my hand off at the elbow. The doctor then quickly shooed me out of the room, but I was close enough to hear every thing that was happening. It was dreadful! I just knew that my marriage was over, and it was all going to end in an ugly custody battle. After what seemed like an eternity, the nurse come out and said, "You can go in now." Should I dare? I cautiously entered the room and there was Marion looking beautiful and smiling. "Come in and meet your new son." This was wonderful! It looked like I was still married and I had a son.
Pete was neat; meaning terrific. We never knew the gender of our children until they where born. I like it that way, as it adds to the excitement and wonder of it all. The first time I saw Pete, it filled me with emotions so strong that I would never be able to explain them. I loved him and loved being his father. He was after all just so...well...so neat. I guess I said that too much because my mother would laugh and tease me about saying, "He's so neat!" Pete was born grown up. He was smart, self-confident, and self-motivated. Plus he was very responsible. A trait he must have gotten from my dad. From the time he could talk, we had conversations. I mean conversations that made sense. Even when Pete was a little boy he would meet adults, look up at them, speak up with a strong voice and say; "Hi. I'm Pete. Nice to meet you." So many times kids won't talk to adults; and if they do, they mumble and look at their feet. Not Pete. Pete has never met a stranger. Everyone is immediately a friend. Pete had friends that were very cool and friends that were, well, strange, but interesting. Everyone liked Pete. Best of all we were friends, doing lots of things together and having conversations about everything. But most of all I loved his very tender heart. Pete was, well, just neat.
At this point in my pondering, I was just coming upon Rudy Lake. The trail skirted the lake and now started a series of long steep switchbacks heading up and up.
It wasn't long until Marion and I started talking about having another child. I was all for this since I sure liked the first one. We have had six children. Marion is the one who always knew when the time was right to have another. I never once suggested to her that we should have a baby. I always thought that these decisions should be left up to the mother. When Marion would come to me and say "I think we should have another one," I was always excited. I can honestly say that all our children were wished for, hope for, and prayed for. When each one came, I was overjoyed.
On New Years Day 1973 we were at my mom and dad's watching the Rose Bowl game. Marion was two weeks past due and was having contractions. Since things had taken so long with Pete, I did not feel the need to rush. So when the game was over, USC beat Ohio State 42 17, I drove Marion to the hospital. Katy was born 45 minutes after we arrived. The first time I saw my new daughter Katy Anne, she was all bundled up in her little blanket laying in a bassinet. As I looked down at her thinking about how beautiful and perfect she was, her little eyes popped open and we looked into each other's eyes. I was startled and then overcome by a feeling of recognition and knew Katy was feeling it to. We knew each other and were both excited to see one another again. I know I know this is impossible, but I know what I know, and no one will ever convince me it didn't happen. Katy and I have known each other for a very long time. Katy arrived filled with wonder and promise, and she never disappointed. I have these little snapshots of Katy in my brain that when pulled up from my memories always make me happy. One is of her after Marion had fixed her blond hair in long hanging curls and dressed her in a little dress, white with polka-a-dots. She was not looking at the camera but was looking at something and thinking. She just looked so pretty. Another was at Stone Mountain in Georgia. Katy had found her way into a huge flower bed of daffodils and was sitting there in a sea of yellow with her golden hair blowing in the wind. Katy loved to read. Her books took her everywhere and developed in her a deep sense of wonder for everything. She could travel so far and be so absorbed in a book that she would not hear us when we called her for dinner. Katy enriched my life.
I had stopped to rest, drink some water, and eat a granola bar. Everywhere I looked, I could only see rock. I happened to look down and next to my boots hidden and protected in the crevice of rock were tiny purple flowers. I reached down and gently touched one and thanked it for its beauty.
Eighteen months after Katy was born, my little Amy Sue was laying in my arms. She had come two weeks past the due date, and I had missed the birth. I had just taken the job in Memphis, worked a week, and because Marion was due, had taken two weeks vacation to come home to wait. After two weeks, I had to return to Memphis. As soon as I got back, Marion went into labor and I flew back wondering all the way what the purpose of having a due date was. When I did get to hold Amy, I held her close to me and knew that she was going to be a joy in my life. As she grew it became apparent that Amy loved to fantasize and dream about things; she had a great creative imagination. I had built her a toy kitchen complete with stove, sink, and cabinets where she could keep her toy dishes and pots and pans. She would play with her kitchen for hours on end. I used to love watching her and marveled at how her little mind worked and wondered where it was taking her. It must have been to great and happy places because she would always laugh and giggle as she played. Amy also had great inner strength which I don't think she realized. She wanted to learn to play the flute. I have often wondered if her play with her toy kitchen helped her to imagine becoming an accomplished musician. Her creative imagination enabled her to make music, not play music. I knew that once her dreams were fixed, that she had the strength and determination to make them come true. Amy was my sweetheart filled with love and compassion.
I carry a small camera and a GPS on the strap that goes between the two shoulder straps on my pack. They are always there within easy reach whenever I need them. I stopped briefly to take a few pictures and check the GPS then headed on.
The best thing I got from living in Atlanta was my little Georgia peach. Margaret arrived two weeks late on October 8, 1977 during the USC and Alabama football game. Dr Hardy and I were watching the game while Marion was in labor and didn't seem too happy that the attention was on a silly game. We had chosen little boy names and little girl names for our new baby and were anxiously awaiting the arrival. If a girl, we were going to name her Margaret after my mother and call her Maggie because that was such a cute name. When I first got to hold my new little girl, I looked at her and saw that she was not just cute; she was beautiful, like my mother. From that moment on, I would never call her Maggie. Margaret was my best lap sitter. She would sit on my lap for hours watching football and baseball with me. Marion would cook tacos and make her own chips. We would be watching a game and I would say: "Margaret go steal me a chip," and she would run giggling into the kitchen, grab one, run back, climb back up on my lap and hand it to me. I would hug her, and we would continue watching the game until I wanted another chip. When we moved to Chicago, we lived in a nice area that had ponds spaced through the neighborhood. I would take Margaret out to our garden to dig some worms, and then we would head across the street to the pond and go fishing. When all set, I would tell Margaret to pick me out the best worm. She would stoop down, her little cotton dress tenting over her knees, and dig through the can until she found the perfect worm, then hand it to me. I would come home from work and find Margaret in our yard, and upon seeing me she would start to run, her little dress swinging to and fro and pigtails bouncing yelling "Daddy! Daddy!" as she jumped into my arms. Margaret will always be my little itty bitty buddy.
I was now up high enough to where I could look down on Rudy Lake and on the other side see a heavy stream emptying into the lake which was running vertically down the sheer rock face of a mountain whose source was the melting snow from peaks that rose over 13,000 ft. above sea level.
Eight and a half years after Margaret was born, and while living in Chicago, we found ourselves back in the delivery room awaiting our next child. Doctors acceptance of fathers being in the delivery room had changed quite a bit and now was common practice. After our first child, the deliveries seemed to be easy. Marion had short labors, and had spent a lot of time trying to calm my fear of childbirth. She had done a good job, and I was convinced that there was really nothing to worry about. It was, after all, very natural and there was nothing to it. Marion went into hard labor and everything was progressing as it should. Our baby was traveling down the birth canal and then stopped. It was too far down for a C-Section and too far up to get with forceps. All of a sudden alarms started going off. Our baby was in distress. Our doctor got very firm with Marion and told her she had to push the baby out now, and in one push. I will never know how she got the strength to do it, but she did. It was the mightiest push in all childbirth history. Our new little boy was out, and was dark blue. The room suddenly filled with doctors and nurses. We were scared to death. Finally we heard a little cry. Our baby was breathing and color returning to his little body. The doctors ran tests and then assured us that everything was going to be fine. Our doctor turned to Marion and said to everyone in the room. "Let's hear it for the mother. That was one helluva push!" When it was all over, I looked down at David and wanted to smack him for scaring us so badly. (Not really, but I think Dave will get a laugh from me saying that.) As David grew, it became apparent that he would always do the opposite of what anyone wanted. So if I wanted something done, I would tell him not to do it; and I would get what I wanted. This could get maddening, though. We would tell David not to run into the busy street that ran by the house, and he would run out into the street anyway. He was a cute little boy, though, and I loved him. He also was the cutest Cub Scout I ever saw. Dave was certainly independent, and I always had an appreciation for that. Don't know if he knew it, but I did.
I stopped again for a drink of water and checked the GPS. I could now see, far up above me, the pass I was headed to and continued hiking up the endless series of switchbacks.
Marion and I were a little concerned that David would be growing up alone because of the big age difference between him and the older kids, so we decided to have one more, both knowing that it would be our last. So once again we found ourselves in the delivery room, Marion was 41 and I was almost 43. The labor and birth went smoothly and our new daughter was born. But there was a knot in the cord and we once again heard an alarm as the room filled up with people. Again there were tests done that assured us that all was fine. The doctor was doing some work on Marion while the nurse wrapped this special little bundle up in a soft yellow blanket, put a little cap on her head, and handed her to me. This was the first time that I had gotten to be the first to hold one of our children. As I looked down at Diane and held her close to me, I knew that I was never going to let her go. Diane kept me young. I would be 60 years old when she graduated from High School. This kept me going to open houses, school activities, sports events, recitals, and band concerts. Diane became a great companion for me. We seemed to like all the same things, and we did lots to things together. When we had the boat down in Ventura, Marion and David preferred to sleep at Marion's mothers house, while Diane always wanted to sleep with me on the boat. At night she would take over the forward V birth and build her own little space there. There was a curtain we could draw which closed off the space and a cabin light inside she could read by. I had a small TV in the boat and at night before bed we would cuddle, eat junk food, watch TV, and read. Then retire to our berths and fall asleep to the lapping of small waves against the hull, and the music made by the wind as it blew through the rigging. Many times not everyone wanted to go out on the boat, but Diane always did. We would spend the day sailing together and loving every minute of it. I just wanted to hold her close to me and never let her go.
I had reached Mono Pass and stood next to a snow field at 12,077 ft. And looking down both sides could see mountains and lakes everywhere. In the distance stood snow-capped peaks over 13,000 ft high. The sky was clear, a bright deep blue, and filled with big puffy white clouds. I stood there marveling at God's creation. When finished God looked at all creation and saw; "It was very good." Thinking of my children, I realized that I had a small part in that creation and it was very good. My eyes filled with tears and I looked down to see that my tear drops had fallen on my boots, the drops causing little circles in the trail dust. I looked closer and realized that my tears had washed clean the little circles and the leather appeared new and refreshed within them. There are tears of sadness and tears of joy, but the only tears that cleanse are the tears of gratitude.
Many have told me that I should not hike alone. They don't understand. With me walks Cliff Thompson and all my old scout and young men leaders, old friends, new friends and special friends like Roger Taylor, Marion, my family like Bob, Joyce, Dennis and Connie, and especially my children, plus He who made all the world for me to enjoy. What they don't understand is that I never walk alone and never have.
LJ
